


green gardens are not what's growing in my psyche

by noonlighted



Series: dream smp fics [6]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD, Blood and Injury, Gen, Intrusive Thoughts, Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Violent Thoughts, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, i just want to hug him now techno i'm sorry, it's mental illness innit, please read the warnings, techno and phil angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29075265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noonlighted/pseuds/noonlighted
Summary: It’s like a racetrack. That’s how he’s always described it.Technoblade has struggled with the thoughts for years—violent, endlessly bloodthirsty. He's not sure if he can take it anymore.
Series: dream smp fics [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055483
Comments: 8
Kudos: 97





	green gardens are not what's growing in my psyche

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sock-Footed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28334997) by [wallaceandvomit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallaceandvomit/pseuds/wallaceandvomit). 



> tw// intrusive thoughts, graphic descriptions of imagined violence, blood
> 
> so here’s the techno angst that absolutely no-one asked for. i’m not super active in the fandom rn but i know there’s a bit of discourse around the ‘voices in his head’ and stereotypes of nd people. i’m not sure if he intended it to be read more as psychosis or intrusive thoughts, but as someone who’s struggled with intrusive thoughts for a long time, that’s how i’m gonna be writing it.
> 
> this is not like the angsty shit i usually write—it gets kind of violent at points, pretty sad (not in a nice way), there’s some graphic descriptions of violence (mostly imagined), lots of mentions of blood. if this could be triggering for you, or if you have/are suffering from intrusive thoughts, you might want to give this one a miss. i won’t lie when i say this was a vent fic.

It’s like a racetrack.

That’s how he’s always described it—mumbling into his chest at therapy, therapist leaning forward in her chair, hands under chin, humming and nodding like she understood. They never understood.

Most people saw the pink hair and the cowboy boots and let their eyes glaze over.

It wasn’t meant to sound pretentious, wasn’t some overworked metaphor. He wasn’t a poet. He wasn’t Wilbur, words scrawled up his arms in pink and green marker. He’d told him that exact line, actually, when he was fifteen and Wilbur was thirteen, and Wilbur had found him crying in the airing cupboard, rambling about “the Blood God”.

“What’re you doing?”

“Looking for a notebook?”

Techno’s eyebrows lowered in confusion. “What?”

“A notebook. So I can write that down.”

“What?” he said again, exasperated. Will always had an irritating habit of being extremely vague and acting like it was everyone else’s fault that they didn’t understand him. A girl had told him once she thought it made him “mysterious”. Techno had laughed in her face.

“The racetrack thing,” he said, exasperated. “It was a good line. I want to write it down, I don’t know.” He ran a hand through his hair, squinting. This had been before he’d realised that glasses were “like, kind of cool, actually”, and insisted that if he squinted hard enough his eyesight would fix itself. Techno had told him repeatedly that it made him look like an idiot.

Techno stood up, staring at Will. “No,” he said.

“No what?”

“No you can’t use it in one of your fucking stories, Wilbur. I—” He stopped himself before he went any further, before he got angry. He made to shut the door slightly louder than necessary on his way out.

It was just how he’d always felt, the only way he could put it into words. The roaring, rushing intensity, never stopping, loud enough to drown out every other thought. He’d got in trouble at school, never been able to answer questions. The ADHD was part of it, sure. But some days it was all too much, the thoughts just wouldn’t go away. They were so loud.

When he was younger, he’d shake his head every time a thought came. Just a little twitch, _fucking go away, I don’t want you here_. Like an Etch-A-Sketch or something, shake his head hard enough and it’ll all erase, all the thoughts, all the blood, everything. The kids thought he was crazy—he’d had one memorable interaction with a Catholic boy who’d told his teacher that he was "possessed by actual Satan". The teachers assumed it was some disorder, Tourette’s, that sort of thing. But it wasn’t a tic, he could stop it—he did stop it after a few months, when his neck started hurting from the constant jerking. It was more of a learned reflex, a knee-jerk reaction to tell himself he wasn’t okay with it. The belief had become so strong that he would drift into complacency. Start agreeing with the thoughts, maybe even want to act on them. To actually act on them, not just acting on them to fulfil the sick, roaring bloodlust of the voices in his head.

It never stopped. And what’s worse, it felt like it was his fault. Wake up, brain clear— _I'm forgetting something_. And then it started. Blood, so much blood. He’d wash himself for hours, skin bright pink with heat, until Phil had told him crossly that he’d used up all the hot water. 

“But what about the blood?”

“What blood?” Phil said, worried.

“It’s everywhere. I can’t get it off.” 

Phil squinted. “Techno...there’s no blood.”

“There is!” he said, desperate. “There will be!” 

Phil glanced nervously at him, watching his wet hair form a small pool on the bathroom floor. “You okay, mate?”

“He’s like Lady Macbeth,” Wilbur said, appearing in the doorframe. He sniggered. “ _Out, damned spot._ ”

“Piss off, Will,” Phil said gruffly. Will made a face at Techno. Techno glared at him.

“What’s going on?”

Techno stared at the floor. There was a squeak as Phil closed the door. 

“Technoblade?”

Phil only ever called him that when he was worried. 

He’s calling him it now, voice distant through the door—“Technoblade, open this door right now or I’ll call the police.” 

_He’d never really call them_ , he thinks. It’s all empty threats. He’d sooner replace a busted door than call the police on his own son. 

Banging. “Techno!” he says again, voice sharp. “Open the door and we can sort this out. Don’t do anything stupid, you’ll regret it.”

He’d tried to explain it to him, that day in the bathroom. The racetrack thing. The way his thought would race, fueled by anxiety, the sound so loud he felt like he was vibrating. _Blood, blood. Blood for the Blood God._

“It’s like they drag me around with them.”

“What?”

“My thoughts. It’s like they’re dragging me around the track and they’re going so fast, round and round all day and night, soon as I wake up ‘til I go to bed again.”

“Dragging you?”

“Yeah,” he said, slowly. “Like I’m holding onto the back of a car, but I can’t let go even if I try, and it keeps going, And, like, I can forget about them sometimes, if I’m talking to a friend or if I’m in school or something, but every time I’m thinking about it, it’s the only thing I can think about. I can’t stop it until someone else takes my mind off it.” 

And it never stops being less painful, he wants to say. He wants to flesh out the metaphor, tell him everything. The way he can imagine his skin, raw and bloody from the asphalt as they go round. How sometimes he spots old brown stains as they go past, and it brings back a flood of old thoughts he thought he’d gotten over.

_I’ve had friends who’ve told they’ve had this kind of things, the thoughts, the obsession, the hating yourself all the fucking time. And I can’t give them advice, because what is there to say? Wait it out, they’ll go eventually? Some fucking comfort._

Phil placed his hand on his shoulder. “Is this a regular thing?”

He laughed, dead-eyed. “Yeah. On and off since I was thirteen.”

Phil raised his eyebrows. “Jesus,” he murmured. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t think there was anything you could do.” 

Phil paused.

He can imagine Phil’s face, as he tells him how he’s fantasised about slamming his head hard enough on his desk to knock himself out, or ripping his eyes out his sockets, anything to shut them up. The voices.

“What...what sort of thoughts are they?” he asked, voice low and hesitant.

He glanced up at him quickly— _it’s like a game, up, down, up, down, if we meet, we lose. If we hold eye contact he’ll know what I’m thinking. Eyes are the window to the soul and all that._

“I…” He’s not sure if he should tell him. He’s worried enough as it is. 

“Sit down.” 

He sat on the toilet lid, pulling awkwardly at pieces of his fringe. 

He tried to swallow. “I think about killing people, mainly. Or hurting them.”

“Specific people?”

“Not really—”

“People you hate?”

“Um, sometimes.” _You_ , he thinks. _You and Tommy and Wilbur, mostly_.

He nodded. “Right.” 

He’d never told Phil any more than that, any more than he had thoughts and they scared him sometimes. He’d told his therapist a little more—how many voices there were, chanting, bloodthirsty. _Blood for the Blood God._

He’d told her about that, too. 

“Like Warhammer?”

He’d been surprised she’d known about that. “Not really. They just say it. I don’t really know what it means.”

“Do you think you want to kill people, Techoblade? Or do you think it’s just the…voices?” 

She’d always called him by his full name. It made him cringe sometimes. It felt like a police interrogation.

He looked into his lap again. Eyes down— _she knows, she’s going to call the police. She can tell she’s probably going to get up any second now quick grab something—what’s sharp? no this is a therapist office stupid stupid pathetic knock her out maybe? fingers in her eyes?_

He glanced over the table.

 _Glass vase! Smash over her head, throw it at her blood blood blood blood blood red everything is red_. He tried to close his eyes, but it was like it was stained behind his eyelids. Thump thump thump. Heartbeat in his ears. Blood rushing, rushing, so loud, it makes him feel dizzy... _You’re fucking disgusting, Techno. She’s you’re therapist, you’re literally a psychopath, you’re a criminal. You should probably hand yourself over to the police before you actually hurt somebody because you will, we all know it. You should be locked up or something in one of those padded cells so you can’t hurt people._

*

He kicks the chair away from the door. It falls backwards, landing onto his foot. Pain shoots up his leg.

Phil stares as he hops around, holding his foot and swearing. 

For a moment a knot of anger clutches at his chest. _I wish he’d go away. He’s always in my room, in my space, asking if I’m okay, as if he fucking cares_

“You alright, Techno?”

Squeezing his foot, he nods. “Yeah. Just stubbed my toe."

He crosses his arms, pausing. It’s just him staring at Techno and Techno staring back, trying not to look too defiant. Oh, and the voices. (Always the voices.) Then—“Did you take your meds today?

“Yes!” I say, irritated. _Fuck off, please._

He holds his hands up. “Okay! Sorry. Just checking. You looked a bit out of it at dinner.”

_I was thinking about killing my friends._

The room is starting to feel far too small for him. Suffocating. His shoulders start hunching in on themselves. He hates being interrogated.

He realises he’s zoned out—Phil’s looking at him expectantly, like he’s waiting for an answer.

“Sorry, what?”

"I asked if you were okay?”

You already asked me that. It’s okay, you can leave now Dad. You’ve fulfilled your good parent quota for the day.

He stares at his dad. There’s a strange, painful pull in my throat. _I’m crying. Why am I crying?_

He lets Phil wrap his arms around, lets him rest his chin on top of his head, lets him rub his thumb back and forth along his shoulder.

"The voices again?"

He nods into his shoulder. He can feel tears and spit start to stain his sweater, but Phil’s holding him so tight he can’t move to brush them away.

“I...I thought I would get used to it after a while. But every time it’s just as bad.” He presses my lips together to try and stop the giveaways- the low, ragged breathing, the shaky voice. The buzz of the air is so loud. He lets his eyes close, trying to focus on Phil’s thumb as it circles my shoulder. _It’s like the track changes every time. Not significantly, not enough that you’d notice at first glance. But enough that you can feel it, as you go round. When you crash a corner you’d thought you’d mastered. Heavy breathing, fingers sticky with blood. The cycle repeats._

“And I just feel crazy, ‘cos I’m arguing with myself, you know? Like—” He’s full-on crying into Phil's shoulder now, gasping wet breaths between words—“I try to stop them so I start trying to talk to myself and I just feel fucking crazy.” 

After what seems like an eternity, he lets Techno go, reaching for his hands. He offers a lame smile of thanks.

“Jesus,” Phil mutters.

“Sorry?”

“Jesus, Techno. What did you do?”

He looks down at his hands. They’re shiny with blood, thin streams running back down his arms and under the sleeves of his hoodie. He flexes his fingers experimentally. Pain like a whetted axe. It cuts straight through the buzz of voices and in his brain. His hands are shaking. He hadn’t noticed.

“Jesus,” he says again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I—” _How do I phrase this in a way that won’t make me sound like a moron?_ “I didn’t realise.”

Phil stares at him. There’s blood on the edge of his index nail. He doesn’t seem to notice.

_Tightening jaw. Energy, sick and buzzing, clawing at my throat. Red everywhere, tinging my vision. Blood dried under my fingernails. My head hurts, but it’s not like a headache. As the thoughts start to rise against the dam of coffee and Red Bull, I remember banging my head against the wall, hoping that at least if it didn’t help the thoughts, the pain would be louder. Everything’s shaking—I don’t know if it’s anxiety or adrenaline or what. There’s blood, real blood this time. Brownish red on the carpet. “Fuck. Dad’s going to be pissed.”_

He glances down. Sure enough, the hand towel from the room has been hastily placed over it. There are flecks of blood around the edges. _Oh, he’s going to be more than pissed._

 _A loud sound- shattering? Blood-smeared glass scattered across the floor. Crawling on my knees, picking up fragments with shaking hands. Long strands of saliva. Wiping my face with bloodied hands, smearing snot and spit and blood across my cuffs._ It’s stained his palms slightly red. The lines of his knuckles and palms are dark and defined against his skin.

_I hope he doesn’t check the glass recycling._

“What’s going on?” 

Will’s hovering next to the door, watching.

Techno stares back, eyes hard. _He’s asking to get his teeth knocked out._

“What?” 

_I hate when he acts all innocent_. “Fuck off.”

“Don’t swear at your brother, Techno.”

Wilbur shakes his head at me, putting on an overexaggerated pout. _I hate him. I hate Dad and I hate Will so, so fucking much._

“Look, Will, can you just give us a minute?”

“It’s my fucking room too!”

Phil raises his eyebrows.

Will scowls. “It’s my room too. Just because Techno’s being a baby.”

He’s doing it deliberately. His jaw clenches. _Blood. Blood. Skull crushing inwards underneath my fist_ —he swallows.

“This is my room too,” he says again, angrier this time. “You always pick Techno because he’s your favourite. Maybe I have issues too, you wouldn’t know because you don’t care, you only care about Techno, we all know it. Tommy could have an eating disorder and you wouldn’t care because you’re a shitty dad.”

His eyes are blazing.

“Will—” Phil starts.

“I’m gonna tell Tommy that you’re a freak and he’s going to kill us in our sleep,” Will spits, stalking away.

“Will!” he calls. “Wilbur Soot, you come back here right now and apologize—”

“Dad.”

Phil turns back to him. Techno shakes his head. All he can think of is wrapping his hands around his throat until his face turns grey and lifeless, and his hands lie useless at his sides. 

_Stop_ , he thinks. _Fucking stop._

“Hey, hey!” Phil catches his hands as he raises them to hit his forehead. “It’s going to be okay.”

Blazing red, ripping dark gashes behind my eyelid. _It’s going to be okay. Please, fuck, let me wake up someday and not have to deal with this. Please don’t tell me that this is the rest of my life._

“Maybe we could go cycling this afternoon. We could head towards that big hill in the park.”

He grins. He likes cycling—anything you have to use your body for, that you can concentrate on solely. The roar of wind in your ears, the unthinkingness of it. The way your brain seems to white out.

“Yeah? Okay. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He leads Techno to the bathroom, absentmindedly stroking his hair. 

_It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. (Please let it be okay.)_

**Author's Note:**

> i don't really know how to end this but i really just wanted to post it so i could write happier stuff- i'm planning something with niki, wilbur and sally (lol ik but she's a nereid not a straight up salmon) and definitely something about ranboo. genuinely haven't watched any streams in the past week or two which ik is bad but i've been so goddamn busy. sorry for this sad shit, as i said it's more of a vent than anything else. as always, kudos and especially comments are very appreciated!  
> love, pear xx
> 
> p.s i couldn't decide between first n third person for most of the fic—if you spot any rogue first person outside of the thoughts, i'm sorry! i'm trying my best <3 i don't know if this is gonna be a one time thing, maybe i'll do a second part where he's older, on the smp perhaps?? if i still like this in a month haha.
> 
> if yu wanna come chat to me, my tumblr is @noonlighted and my wattpad is @endinflames


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